Orange Magic
by Idan
Summary: After Las Vegas, Jane tries to put his relationship with Lisbon back on solid ground in his own inimitable way. Citrus-scented Jisbon fluff with a side of silliness. Minor spoilers for season 5, then speculation about the upcoming reunion.


**Disclaimer**: No, I don't own The Mentalist, and yes, it's on my Christmas list

**Author's Note**: I started this as an episode tag for Crimson Ticket way back when but never could find the ending. Then the spoilers for My Blue Heaven gave me an idea. So it might be a little disjointed, but I wanted to post something light and fluffy, so here it is.

Jane had paced, fumed, and thought furiously, all to no avail. None of that was going to change the facts: Red John was out ahead of them again, and their best chance at getting to him was gone. All he'd been through the last six months was now rendered worthless, wasted time and energy and misery. And sitting up here in the attic seething about it was yet more wasted energy. He took a deep breath and began calming himself down.

He thought about going downstairs to the bullpen, but he'd noticed since his return that it wasn't as comfortable as it used to be. The team dynamic had shifted, slightly but noticeably, in his absence. Of course, most of that had to do with Lisbon's bad temper; Cho and Rigsby had forgiven him when he outwitted the FBI, and Van Pelt's own harder attitude was probably going to turn out to be a good thing in the end. Naiveté was something none of them could afford.

Lisbon, though, was a problem. She had always been delightfully sarcastic and impatient with anything she could call stupidity, but this was something else. He was surprised he hadn't noticed it immediately, but he'd been focused on trapping Red John, and then on breaking Lorelei. And he'd been too relieved to have someone he could trust again to really examine her for changes. Nothing could alter her loyalty, after all, and that was what he'd needed.

Of course, he shouldn't have taken anything for granted. He'd been genuinely startled that she'd listened to his conversation with Lorelei after agreeing not to. It wasn't like her; she should have just told him that she would be listening and to live with it. He didn't really have a choice in the matter, after all. Why lie to him about it instead? If, in fact, that was what she had done. He didn't like to think he simply hadn't noticed. It was preferable to believe she'd meant it when she'd agreed, and just couldn't go through with it when the time came. Because anything else meant they had a problem.

He couldn't have Lisbon telling him what she thought he wanted to hear and then maneuvering behind his back. That way lay disaster. Whatever was going on with her, he needed to sort it out, and quickly.

He'd only heard the first part of her rant about needing solid ground, but it made sense. She felt that too much was out of her control, and part of the anger stemmed from a feeling of helplessness, the emotion she was least able to deal with.

Of course, the rest of the anger was aimed squarely at him, and with good reason, he had to admit. Still, he couldn't see himself going through the long list of apologies she apparently felt were her due. It was one thing to peel off a piece of his scar tissue to make her understand a point or to gain her sympathy, but he wasn't going to torture both of them with a confessional session he'd only resent. Nothing he could say was really going to make up for the damage he'd caused, anyway.

God, he was a curse on that woman, and of all the people he knew, she deserved it the least. It honestly hadn't occurred to him that his absence would distress her more than all the crap he regularly pulled when he was around. But though she was soldiering on with all her stubborn determination, she seemed almost brittle to him now. Less resilient, like she had used up her reserves. That was a frightening thought. He needed her for his quest, his sanity, his own selfish comfort. He'd never before had the idea that she might not be able to go the distance with him. And of course, she'd punch him in the nose if he ever showed any doubt of it to her.

The little efforts he used to make from time to time to ensure her emotional wellbeing had never struck him as anything but self-interest, because her unhappiness made his daily life less comfortable, less enjoyable. But apparently it had become necessary to her somewhere along the way. She needed someone to tease her, to bring up things she didn't want to talk about, and to surprise her. The team would do anything for her, but they couldn't give her that. She would shut them down if they tried, and they respected her as their boss too much to overrule that.

She'd greet anything extravagant with suspicion; he'd do better to stick to small things. He smiled as an idea struck him, and he headed for the door, glancing out the window over his shoulder. It wasn't quite sundown yet—he still had time to get started tonight.

_An hour later_

A few stragglers were waiting for the elevator when Jane got off it, and the bullpen was empty, though the lights were on in Lisbon's office, of course. She'd be in there dealing with boring paperwork now that things were quiet and she wouldn't be interrupted.

When he got close enough to glimpse her through the open blinds, he paused, really taking stock for the first time in too long. She wasn't working, just sitting at her desk rubbing at her temples, a sure sign of a vicious headache. The way her shoulders were set was painful to see—it spoke of dejection, defeat. Those were things he'd never associated with her before. He tried to remember if he'd seen her eat anything today, and was unhappy that he couldn't.

He squared his shoulders, plastered on his best grin, and hefted the orange in his hand as he sauntered into her office. "Heads up!" he called, but waited until she'd lifted her head before he tossed the orange to her.

She caught it neatly and stared at it for a moment. "I thought you left. Why are you throwing fruit at me?"

"It isn't commentary on your performance," he told her, sliding into the chair and looking at her across her desk. "Being pelted by fruit is, as I'm sure you're aware, the very worst of all reviews."

"Ha, ha. I wasn't aware I was on stage."

"All the world's a stage, Lisbon, and all the men and women merely players."

Lisbon shook her head a little and said, "Nobody's quoted Shakespeare at me in a long time."

"Quoted to you, Lisbon, not at you." It was a fine distinction, but it mattered. "You look like you could use some fresh fruit. It's good for the mental processes."

"You think there's something wrong with my mental processes?" she asked suspiciously.

"It's been a tough day. Eat your fruit, and you'll feel better."

"Sorry." Real regret colored her voice as she set the orange carefully on her desk. "I'm supposed to stay away from acidic foods. They're bad for my ulcer."

"You have an ulcer, Lisbon?" That was a new development, although he couldn't say he was surprised.

"I have an ulcer, Jane," she replied. She didn't say "thanks to you, jackass," but he read it in the set of her jaw.

"Isn't coffee acidic?" he asked innocently.

She let out a long sigh. "Yes. But I can't give it up, so I have to avoid everything else that's a problem. And I have cut back. I'm trying to make myself like ginger tea."

Her nose scrunched up adorably, but he noted it only in passing, thinking back over the last few mornings he'd seen her. It was true that she hadn't drunk as much coffee as he remembered, but he'd chalked it up to her being distracted. "Peppermint tea is also soothing," he said, "if you need a change."

"Thanks," she murmured. She looked at the orange again, then went back to her paperwork.

Jane promised himself he wasn't leaving until he got her to smile, at least once. "I don't know how well versed you are in fruit lore, Lisbon," he said in his best know-it-all voice, "but the orange is the traditional fruit of apology."

"Really?" She looked up, interested, for a moment before catching herself and looking down at her work again. "General purpose apologies, or specific ones?"

Ah, he thought, keeping his smile under wraps, she isn't going to forget that anytime soon. "Navel oranges are generally considered appropriate for broader apologies, or apologies for larger issues. Smaller varieties, such as clementines, are used for specific or narrowly defined apologies." He pretended to consider. "I suppose I could go find a crate of small oranges if you'd rather have those."

"No thank you. Though I suppose you do owe apologies to other people around here who might be able to eat them."

"I was going to tell you how the juiciness of the fruit corresponds to the sincerity of the apology, but that seems moot since you won't be eating it." He thought rapidly. "But there is one little-known fact that you may find interesting. If the fruit is uneaten, the time it remains fresh correlates with the depth and heartfelt qualities of the apology."

She looked amused, but she wasn't quite smiling. "So if this orange sits on my desk for what, a couple of weeks without rotting, that'll mean you're really, really sorry?"

"Exactly."

"What is the shelf life of an orange?" she asked. "No, I'll just have to Google it anyway."

"Lisbon!" He put a hand to his heart as if wounded there. "Are you implying you can't trust my judgment in all matters fruit related?"

"No," she said, "I'm implying that you're trying to sell me a load of sheep dip. I don't think there is any such thing as the traditional fruit of apology."

"All traditions have to start somewhere," he pointed out.

She sighed. "I suppose I could keep it around until it gets all soft and smelly, and then throw it at you the next time you irritate me."

"See? Symbolic, decorative, and useful! You're right, Lisbon: that is a much better idea than just eating it. How boring and pedestrian a fate being eaten must be for a fruit. I'm sure it would much rather meet its end as the instrument of your vengeance."

He could just see the corners of her mouth tugging upward. Almost there. "And I'd far rather have you throw a half-rotten orange at me than your stapler. Anyone would, really. And think of the comic effect, especially if you manage to hit me in the head. It might even make Cho laugh."

And there it was: a full-on, involuntary smile. It only lasted a second, but he was satisfied for now. He got to his feet. "And on that note, I bid you good-night," he said formally.

Her soft "Good night, Jane," followed him out into the hall, and he smiled. It was good to be home.

_Three weeks later_

Lisbon picked up the orange and tossed it from hand to hand, a new habit she'd picked up. She was a little surprised the cleaning staff had never gotten rid of it, and she was even more surprised that it still looked edible. It still smelled nice, too, she realized, although it was surely approaching the end of its useful life by now.

Was this the same orange? Jane could well be propping up his silly tale of the traditional fruit of apology by swapping them out periodically. Although she supposed he got a few points for the effort, she decided to test her theory. Looking around to make sure no one was watching, she picked up her ink pen and made a small circle on the bottom of the orange, barely noticeable.

There, she thought, satisfied. Now she'd be able to tell when he swapped it for a new one.

_Two weeks later_

The orange was still remarkably fresh looking, but it still had the small dot she'd drawn on the bottom. Or maybe Jane had been on the lookout for it and drawn a dot on the new orange, she realized. She needed something harder to duplicate. It was getting close to Halloween, so she drew a jack o' lantern face in black ink on one side, then, on a whim, signed her name on the bottom of the orange. There. Let him try duplicating that!

_Four weeks later_

Try as she might, she couldn't discern any difference in the orange. If Jane was really replacing the orange and replicating her doodling, it said something very worrying about his ability to forge her signature. She thought about setting up a webcam to monitor the orange when she wasn't around, then wanted to bang her head against the desk. Was she really thinking about an orangecam? Surely that was a sign of impending insanity.

_One week later_

The orange was the first thing she looked at when she walked in every morning, so she noticed the turkey feathers immediately. They were obscuring the jack o' lantern face, and when she sat down she saw the badly drawn turkey head facing her. Despite how upset she was with Jane these days, she couldn't help chuckling.

When Jane stopped in her doorway to see what was up, still stiff and bruised from the car "accident" that had ended the mess with Lorelei, she accused, "You defaced my orange!"

"I did no such thing," he said. "I saw that it had become an art project, and I decided to add my own touch. It had become sadly out of date, you know."

"Are you going to put a Santa hat on it for Christmas?"

"You think it will last that long? Wow, that is one long-lived orange."

"Uh huh." She folded her arms and looked at him. "I guess that means you were really, really sorry."

"I was," he replied. "And am."

Was that an oblique apology for breaking Lorelei out of prison and forcing her to lie to Homeland Security? Well, it was likely as close to one as she would ever get. "Good," she said. "You should be."

He gave her a wry smile. "I'm aware, Lisbon. But I'm afraid this won't be the last apology you deserve from me." He held her gaze for a moment, then left.

She suppressed a shiver. She tried very hard not to think about what would happen if she didn't stop Jane from killing Red John. But one thing was certain: there would be no more oranges.

_Three weeks later_

It must be taking him hours to duplicate the orange art project by now, Lisbon reflected as she examined the odd fruit-based objet d'art on her desk. The turkey feathers were gone, replaced by a little red coat with white trim and a black belt, a white cotton ball beard peeking out from under the Santa hat. Today there was also some iridescent glitter scattered around, she noticed.

It was really touching that he took so much time and trouble keeping up this silly act. In a way, all that effort did mean he was really, really sorry, she thought, although by now it had probably turned into some strange challenge. She wondered if this would still be going on at Easter and if he would turn the orange into a bunny. Come September, would they be celebrating an orange anniversary? She thought that if he showed that much dedication to his fairy tale, she should probably do something nice for him in return, other than keeping people from beating him up, dealing with complaint paperwork, and all the other things she did for him on a regular basis that he seemed to take for granted.

_Two weeks later_

The New Year's orange sporting a diaper and a top hat was the most ridiculous thing she'd ever seen. She started giggling as soon as she spotted it, and even Cho had a hard time keeping a straight face when he looked at it. Lisbon now had a steady stream of people wandering past her office on a regular basis to see the orange, which had been annoying at first and was now just part of the strangeness of it all.

_Six weeks later_

Who knew there were orange-flavored chocolate kisses? Apparently Jane did, because she came in the week of Valentine's Day to find the orange sporting a wrap of white tissue paper with red hearts and surrounded by the candy.

"At last, something I can eat," she remarked when Jane looked in, popping one into her mouth even though it was eight o'clock in the morning. "Want one?"

"No thanks," he smiled. "Just wanted to see what the magic orange was doing today."

"Aren't you the one who's always saying there's no such thing as magic?"

"Ah, but as you often point out, Lisbon, even I can't know everything." His grin seemed to hang in the air after his departure, much like the Cheshire Cat's.

_Four weeks later_

What with Lorelei's gruesome death and Jane shutting himself in his attic more than ever, Lisbon fully expected the orange to shrivel and rot. There just didn't seem to be any levity left in Jane, nor any room in his obsession for thoughts about anyone besides Red John.

It was a shame though, because she'd really been looking forward to finding out what the Saint Patrick's Day orange would be. Given the day's significance to them both, she bet it would have been spectacular. As she drove to work that morning, she thought that maybe she should just get rid of it. Jane probably wouldn't even notice in his current state. The orange had lasted almost six months; that was long enough.

When she walked into her office, she froze in surprise, then clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.

She wasn't sure it was appropriate to have a bowl of green beer on her desk with an obviously inebriated orange half-submerged in it, and the smell was annoying after a while, but she couldn't help smiling when she looked at it. She hadn't vanished from Jane's radar entirely, after all.

_Two weeks later_

The next Monday, an orange in festive confetti and obnoxious pink tissue paper with a big candle in the shape of the number six attached to it greeted her. It wasn't her birthday, and her age didn't have a six in it this year, so she was puzzled by the meaning of this one. Jane was still pretending to have nothing to do with the ongoing parade of oranges and accessories, so he wouldn't answer her questions about it. But the next day, a note appeared: Happy six-month orange-iversary, Teresa.

She tucked the note carefully away in her desk.

_One week later_

She woke on April Fool's Day with an unusual sense of anticipation. This was usually an annoying day, partly because Rigsby had been trying for years to avenge a prank Cho had pulled on him when he was a rookie, but today she couldn't wait to see what Jane had come up with for the orange. Though Jane abstained from celebrating April Fool's, having announced his first year with them that it would be like an English Lit professor entering a second grade spelling bee, surely the orange didn't share his disdain.

She wasn't sure what to expect, but the empty space on her desk was a shock. She stared at it in dismay as she entered her office and went to her chair, checking to see if maybe the orange had rolled off onto the floor.

It was silly to feel so bereft, she told herself firmly. It was just a game Jane played, with no more meaning than any of the little tricks he showed off to amuse or annoy. It was her own fault if she'd built it into anything more. She should know better.

It was, in a way, a metaphor. Jane had never shown any sign of wanting a closer relationship with her; the "love you" he claimed to have forgotten could easily have been an expression of friendship. She was the one who'd replayed it over and over in her mind, imbuing it with deeper meaning. She was the one who'd stupidly allowed herself to lose her heart and then, even more stupidly, to give herself away in the house on Orchid Lane. And that was all the proof she needed that her castles were built in the air, with no firm ground beneath them: Jane knew now, if he hadn't before, and he did nothing.

Nothing except to redouble his focus on finding Red John, that is. How much more clear did he need to be? Friend, partner, or mark, she was always going to come second to his obsession. There wasn't going to be a happy ending for them. She knew that in her more rational moments. She needed to remember it and not let his natural charm lure her into useless daydreams.

Ending the parade of oranges was an act of mercy on his part, she realized. He cared about her enough to try to help her overcome her feelings, to stop sending her signals she could misinterpret. She should be grateful.

But then why hadn't he stopped right after she gave herself away? Had he waited for April Fool's Day to make the point absolutely clear, so she couldn't avoid his message that she was a fool for loving him?

Oh, that hurt. But it was true, and she knew it was.

Okay, she resolved, blinking back tears and taking a deep breath. Message received. She wouldn't force him to repeat it. She would get herself a cup of coffee, get to work, and not stare at her desk and remember how his silly oranges had made her smile.

_Two years later_

Lisbon sipped at her travel mug of coffee as she walked into the station, nodding greetings to the people already out and about this morning. Knowing everyone was one of the things she liked about small town life; she rarely had to wonder if someone was leading a double life. It had helped her get over her paranoia in the aftermath of the Red John case and the revelation of the Blake Association. She was safe here, away from everything that reminded her of her old life, and if the work was sometimes monotonous, at least she didn't have to spend all her time looking over her shoulder.

Her deputy was out on a call, so she was alone in the place, which was how she liked it. But when she opened the door to her office, she froze in shock at the sight of the big basket of oranges on her desk.

Her heart clenched in pain. Oranges always reminded her of Jane and his silly "traditional fruit of apology" story. But this was doubtless some well-meaning citizen who was making a thoughtful gesture and had no idea that oranges held any meaning for her. At least now that her ulcer had healed, she could actually eat them.

She sat down at her desk, checked to make sure there were no messages for her, and picked up one of the oranges, beginning to peel it. When she heard the door, she looked up, but since no one rang the bell, she assumed it was her deputy. "Jim?" she called. "Did you see who left these?"

There was no reply, and she was about to get up and go see what he was doing when a head appeared in her doorway.

Her heart stopped, and she couldn't breathe as she blinked, hard. Why was she hallucinating Jane? Only, if she was hallucinating him, why did he look so different? She wasn't a fan of facial hair, after all.

"Hey, Lisbon. Love the uniform." He grinned, stepping fully into her office.

She was still staring at him with her mouth open, she realized. She shut it.

"If those aren't enough, I can get you more," he added. "Did you get the shell?"

She nodded, finally finding her voice. "Abbott took it," she said.

"He's such a bastard. I'm going to hate working for him," Jane said, coming forward.

Lisbon was bewildered. She had no idea what was going on, a feeling she was no longer accustomed to. "You're working for the FBI?"

"It was either that or prison." He reached down and took the half-peeled orange out of her hands, setting it on the desk . "Lisbon, I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist on a hug. I've been looking forward to it the whole way here."

He took her elbows and lifted her out of her chair. As she put her hands on his upper arms to steady herself, it all suddenly became real for her, and she flung her arms around him and held on tight. Jane hugged her back just as fiercely, tucking his face into her hair. "I missed you," he whispered. "And I'm sorry."

"I missed you too," she choked out. "Are you okay?"

He chuckled, his breath ruffling her hair. "I'm better now."

Lisbon felt a sob welling up and swallowed it down. She couldn't stop the tears that leaked out of her tightly closed eyes, though. When Jane started to pull back, she resisted, hoping she could get herself under control before he looked at her.

"It's okay," he said gently. "Here." He wiped at her face with a handkerchief, which just made it worse, because who carried a handkerchief these days but Jane?

She took the handkerchief and stepped back, wiping her eyes. "Sorry," she murmured.

"Don't be," he smiled. "But you need to stop crying, or I'm going to start."

She gave a watery chuckle. "Yeah, right."

"Don't underestimate how happy I am to be standing here looking at you," he said, his voice going a little hoarse at the end. Then he grinned. "And how happy I am that you haven't punched me. I'll buy you a truckload of oranges."

"Don't be ridiculous." She turned back to her desk. "What would I do with a truckload of oranges?"

"Then how about one a day for the rest of your life?" he asked.

She looked at him again. He didn't seem to be joking. "I could live with that," she said. She picked up the orange again, and Jane plucked a wedge out of it. "Hey! No stealing my orange!"

He grinned at her as he chewed. Then he leaned forward and planted a smacking, closed mouth kiss on her. An orange-flavored kiss. She couldn't help smiling as she felt herself blush.

"I'll give you one of those a day for the rest of your life too, if you want." His tone was casual, but his eyes were anything but.

"And what's that going to cost me?" she asked breathlessly.

"The oranges are free," he said, his eyes twinkling at her now. "But every kiss has to be paid for with a kiss from you."

"Oh. Well, I always pay my debts." She took a bite of orange, chewing slowly on purpose as she watched his pupils dilate. Then she stepped close enough to press her lips to his.

Almost immediately, he traced the seam of her lips with his tongue, and she opened her mouth to him, feeling a little drunk. That feeling increased as he pulled her against him with one hand on the small of her back, while his other hand went to her hair, pulling at pins until she felt her hair tumble down around her shoulders. In retaliation, she slid both her hands into his hair and ruffled his curls.

"Mm," she said when they parted a long time later. "I missed you, but I have a life here. I have commitments. I have—"

Jane took another orange wedge and pushed it into her open mouth. "You have a duty to society. For a society to reach its highest potential, its members must achieve their highest potential. This—" He gestured to the room around them, "—is not that. You belong on a bigger stage."

"Maybe I don't want a bigger stage," she replied.

He offered her another piece of orange. "Okay then," he said, "how about this: the FBI is desperate enough to coerce me into working for them. That should tell you something about their need for talent. It's your patriotic duty to come prevent me from wreaking havoc on a national scale."

She felt a stab of anxiety that he might be right. He handed her yet another orange slice and smiled gently before adding,"Abbott gave me three days to convince you. After that I have to shut up and be his bitch. I'd much rather be yours."

Lisbon nearly choked on her mouthful of orange. Jane patted her helpfully on the back until she caught her breath. Then she said, "Maybe I'd enjoy seeing you torture him."

"Ah, but that's the catch, my dear. To see it, you have to be there." He gave her his best cocky grin, then let it slide from his face. "Please, Teresa. I need you with me. I'm not exactly in top form."

"You seem like your usual self to me," she said skeptically.

He shook his head. "Sheer euphoria from seeing you again."

"You never needed me before," she challenged.

"Yes, I did. I always did. I didn't always want to admit it, that's all. And in the end, it was really important to me not to take you down with me. But that didn't mean I didn't need you." He held her gaze with the intensity of his own.

She sighed. "Three days, huh?"

He smiled, nodding. "Feel free to make me work for it."

"I will. So, what's the traditional fruit of begging?"

He pulled a perfect, plump strawberry out of his pocket. "Your favorite, of course."

_Twenty hours later_

Lisbon woke slowly, stretching and frowning a little at the variety of sore muscles protesting the action. Rubbing at her eyes, she focused on her alarm clock, then noticed the orange sitting beside it. There was a wooden arrow stuck diagonally through it, with one of those little valentine heart-shaped candies for its point. The absurdity of it made her give a snort of laughter.

Jane draped an arm over her waist as he rolled over to spoon her. "Ah. I see today's orange is a romantic."

"So are you, apparently."

"For you, I am." He dropped a kiss on her shoulder. "For breakfast, I'm thinking pancakes with strawberries and freshly squeezed orange juice."

"What happened to scrambled eggs?" she asked.

"No sacrifice is too great to persuade you to come with me," he replied.

"I hope so," she said, rolling over to smile at him. "Because I don't think I have any tea in the house."

He groaned. "I sure hope you're kidding."

"Maybe," she teased, grinning.

"Woman, you'll be the death of me," he growled, tugging her closer to him.

She laughed into his kiss. He tasted like oranges.


End file.
